Happy Home
by isawrightless
Summary: Tonight they are fighting over the past. It always happens when September comes along.


There's an old woman dressed in a smelly, rumpled dress that glares at them when they walk past her, yelling at each other. They don't care. They never do. Some people have complained about the noise they make, but nobody has any guts to do anything. And they know it's ugly. It's the ugliest thing a person can do: be loud and obnoxious and hateful towards each other, but that's how it is when they fight. She screams, he stands his ground. They point fingers at each other and find themselves cornered against the wall, their lips almost touching, their breathing erratic, they stare at each other's eyes until they calm down and they think about kissing but choose not to.

They always choose not to.

A kiss is too dangerous, a kiss is too much.

She will never know how much he wants her kiss.

But he always look down at her lips and they're full and pink and smooth and she knows that when he backs away too quickly, when he storms off to the bedroom without looking at her it's only because he's getting hard and ready and she's thankful because she's sure she'd let him have his way with her if he stayed.

Tonight they are fighting over the past. It always happens when September comes along. It's a horrible month, full of death and ghosts and sorrow and every little thing seems to piss them off. They are being loud like little children because that's how it happens with them. They lose control. She has seen him stay calm and reasonable during arguments and fights, and she hates raising her voice for it reminds her too much of her mother, but when they're together something goes off and reason abandons them.

They reach his apartment, he opens the door and she passes by him, the scent of strawberry shampoo lingers on and he almost drowns in it. It's enough to calm him down a bit, but inside the yelling starts again.

They accuse each other of neglect, and people outside think they're a couple battling for the custody of their child.

Everybody thinks Sherry is their child.

Sometimes, they think so too.

Then they are reminded that no, the girl is not theirs, she has been taken away.

They fight.

She blames him.

He takes it.

She blames herself.

He lets her.

She asks him why he won't break the rules, she asks him why not when he's the one with access to files and everything they need to take her away. He reasons with her, he tells her she's asking him for things he can't do and she talks about rules again.

She throws death in his face.

"But to find out if _she_ was still alive you had no problem, right?"

He's hurt and shocked and she doesn't know whether to feel good or guilty or both.

"That was different," he says, tries to defend himself.

"No, it wasn't."

"Claire, you know—"

"What? What do I know, that I'm asking for too much? You didn't see her today! You didn't see her! Did you know she's not eating? She's eaten the same food over and over, now she's sick of it. She can't go out to eat at a restaurant, Leon, she can't do anything and I'm asking you to help me fix it, that's all, but you can't break a damn rule for her or for me, you can't—-"

"Shut up."

"Excuse me? Shut up? What, the truth stings?"

"Claire, you don't know what you're talking about."

She smiles a sarcastic smile, shakes her head and looks away. She's thinking about leaving only because she knows how worried he gets when she leaves like this and it's okay because he's hurting her too.

They stay in silence for a while. He's sitting on the couch, she's standing in front of him. She's tired. Her hair is loose, her white tank top sets her bra on display and her wasted jeans are tight on her skin. He has trouble breathing.

"I broke them for you first," he says after a while.

"What?"

"The rules, I broke them for you first. When I contacted your brother…I'd been on that job for three months, I wasn't allowed to do anything really, but I broke the rules for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, but her voice is soft and she sits next to him.

"I don't know," he says, shrugging.

She leans back on the couch. "She's not eating."

He nods.

"I bought a recipe book and I'm trying to cook something for her, but I suck at it."

"I can help."

She smiles.

They apologize for trivial things, but never when they fight. They're both stubborn. She reaches for his hand anyway, and it's so small compared to his, but they entwine their fingers and she rests her head on his shoulder.

She will never know how much he wants her kiss.


End file.
